


The Ways of the World

by Kyele



Series: Ways and Paths [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, D/s undertones, Dark, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2161656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kink meme: <i>The boys have been captured - Athos and Porthos are injured. (Porthos is unconscious) Some of the men guarding them are restless and decide to have a 'bit of fun' with d'Artagnan. Aramis intervenes by persuading them that he has more to offer in the way of experience, so they take him away instead.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ways of the World

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=727558#cmt727558) on the bbcmusketeers kink meme:
> 
> _The boys have been captured - Athos and Porthos are injured. (Porthos is unconscious) Some of the men guarding them are restless and decide to have a 'bit of fun' with d'Artagnan. Aramis intervenes by persuading them that he has more to offer in the way of experience, so they take him away instead. When they bring him back later he's shaking and dishevelled, and tells them not to touch him for a bit. He insists that Porthos must never know what transpired._
> 
> _I'd like d'Artagnan to be confused - perhaps he assumed the man just wanted to rough him up a bit and doesn't appreciate Aramis' intervention. Athos is torn because he didn't want it to happen to d'Artagnan, but it still hurts because this is Aramis. Then they're rescued by Treville and the rest of the musketeers. Does Treville and/or Porthos find out what really happened? How do they react? Give me angst and h/c please, anon._
> 
> Established Aramis/Porthos, developing Athos/D'Artagnan, and nonconsensual Aramis/OMCs. Somewhat dark. Depending on which pair of goggles you’re wearing you may see d/s undertones.

D’Artagnan doesn’t understand at first. After their guards haul Aramis from their cell, he fumes to Athos of being able to take a beating, and not being a child, while behaving in all ways exactly like one. A petulant one. But Porthos is unconscious and Aramis is gone. D’Artagnan is left trembling with fear and anger, no safe channel for either but to rage at Athos and beat his fists against Athos’ restraining hold. Athos doesn’t fight back. He can see the confusion growing on D’Artagnan’s face at this odd behavior until, exhausted, D’Artagnan slumps against him and lets him lower them both to sit on the ground.

“What aren’t you telling me?” D’Artagnan demands. “Athos, what’s going on?”

For all that Aramis and Porthos make light of D’Artagnan’s relative youth and inexperience, he _is_ steady, and usually keeps his head better than this. But he’s just collected his first real beating in their capture. Small wonder he had itched to prove that it was no great matter, that it hasn’t rattled his naïve confidence and chipped away at his self-image. Thrown in a cell, still unwounded, he sought out another beating to assuage his sense of self-worth. No, D’Artagnan’s provocation of the guards is no mystery. The only mystery is how, even growing up in remote Gascony, he could have no idea what else it was he was provoking. 

His ignorance of the ways of men had become apparent early in his novitiate, when another Musketeer had made the customary advances, offering D’Artagnan patronage and training in return for D’Artagnan’s company in his bunk. Athos and Porthos had been sparring nearby, but Athos had stopped, intending to intervene. Though D’Artagnan had only started his novitiate yesterday, his involvement in the plot against Athos had already cemented his place among the three Musketeers, and Athos was prepared to defend his claim if necessary.

It had not been necessary. But the way D’Artagnan had rejected the other Musketeer raised questions in Athos’ mind. He’d asked Aramis to probe further, Aramis who was gifted with words, and Aramis had confirmed it. D’Artagnan had had no idea what his would-be teacher had been suggesting. Nor of what Athos would be expecting, having already pledged to be D’Artagnan’s mentor.

Athos had not considered himself a sentimental man, but he’d made the immediate decision to protect that innocence. He’d train the boy. Teach him the ways of the wider world. But he’d not demand the boy’s presence in his bed until D’Artagnan himself sought it. When D’Artagnan was ready, he would come to Athos of his own accord, and it would be sweet indeed.

The Captain had taken notice. _You’re not doing him any favors,_ Treville had remarked one day out of the blue, appearing at Athos’ side while he watched D’Artagnan receive a lesson in swordfighting from Aramis in the garrison yard. _Just take him to your bed and have done with it._

_I don’t know what you mean,_ Athos had tried. 

_Don’t try that with me, son. You’re respected, and the best swordsman in the regiment besides, but if the men find out you’ve left him chaste, they’ll think he’s available. They only hold back now because they believe he’s yours._

_He_ is _mine_ , Athos had said, and more sharply than he’d intended.

_Not in a way the others will respect,_ Treville had countered. _There haven’t been many novices lately. Men are lonely. They’ll move in if they see an opportunity._

Athos had known that the captain was right. There were whores aplenty in Paris, and many Musketeers had mistresses besides, but there were some urges a woman simply couldn’t satisfy. A young man just starting out in military service was customarily taken under the wing of a more experienced man and taught the arts of service. By day, service to the king; by night, service to the teacher. Not all the Musketeers were interested in such an arrangement, of course. Some had no interest in male lovers. Others, such as Porthos and Aramis, preferred the company of an experienced companion to the fumblings of a raw boy. Athos would have said he had no interest in lovers at all. But that was before D’Artagnan stumbled into the garrison like a fledgling bird seeking its nest. So bursting with hope and promise and _life_ that Athos’ own cold heart had started beating again.

He’d never taken on a novice before, but with D’Artagnan it had been easy. Aramis and Porthos had started it, bringing the boy into their fold over the matter of Athos’ arrest. D’Artagnan had simply stayed. Athos had given D’Artagnan one look, one nod, as he walked away from his firing squad. And the boy had fallen into step at Athos’ side as if he’d been born for the place.

Athos hadn’t quite known what to do with that sudden, trusting devotion. D’Artagnan wasn’t just new to the realities of military life. He didn’t only require training with the musket and the sword. He knew nothing of what went on in the barracks, or on campaign, where there were only men and therefore men must suffice. He had no conception of the bonds formed between soldiers. And Athos had been afraid of revealing these mysteries too quickly. Afraid of damaging the trust and esteem D’Artagnan held them in. For D’Artagnan to think Athos only trained him because he expected D’Artagnan’s body in return was somehow repellent.

Athos had thought it was just a matter of time until D’Artagnan awoke to reality. He’d thought he could afford to be patient. 

D’Artagnan understands now. The guards haven’t taken Aramis far, just down to their crude blockroom at the end of the prison corridor, and they have no reason to constrain themselves to silence. The two conscious in the cell can’t quite hear everything, but what they can hear is enough, more than enough, to penetrate even D’Artagnan’s ignorance. The coarse laughter of the onlookers and the groans of the men taking their turns. The wet, sick slap of skin against skin. The crude taunts.

“But why?” D’Artagnan whispers, twisting in Athos’ grip to face the older man. “Why does he do this for me?”

Athos struggles for a moment, searching for an answer. “Because you are under our protection,” he says finally. 

“I – ” D’Artagnan starts to speak. Starts to say, hotly, that he needs no one’s protection. It’s an argument Athos has heard a thousand times before, on the many occasions when D’Artagnan’s foolhardiness is restrained by one of his more experienced comrades. But this time the fire dies abruptly behind D’Artagnan’s eyes. This time D’Artagnan admits, if only by the sick look on his countenance, that he _does_ need protection. 

Athos wants to cover D’Artagnan’s ears. Block out the noises wafting down the corridor. It’s too late for that now; D’Artagnan is receiving his education at long last. Instead Athos prays. He is not a religious man. He gave up a belief in God’s mercy a long time ago. But he prays that D’Artagnan doesn’t do the same. He prays that Porthos remains unconscious until the guards are done with Aramis. He prays that Aramis doesn’t break. 

For himself, he prays for forgetfulness. His ears are still ringing with the catch in Aramis’ voice as he pushed D’Artagnan into Athos’ arms and begged them to take care of Porthos. His eyes still behold the terrible courage that held Aramis in place, neither retreating nor attacking, as the guards advanced upon him. His heart still squeezes with the inescapable knowledge of what is being done to his friend, his comrade, his brother. And his soul still burns with the sick gratitude that Aramis interceded, that it’s Aramis and not D’Artagnan at the end of the hallway right now, that Athos’ precious boy is still with him. That the innocence of D’Artagnan’s body remains, though the innocence of his mind is leeching from him, piece by piece.

“D’Artagnan?” Athos tries. When there’s no response, he gathers his Gascon up more closely, pulling D’Artagnan nearly into his lap. A quiet voice in Athos’ mind murmurs that this is too explicit a gesture. That Athos risks revealing his desires. He ignores it; he should have ignored it from the start. If Athos hadn’t been so cautious, so bloody careful of D’Artagnan’s youth and inexperience, the guards’ intentions towards their prisoners might not have come as such a shock. But Athos had chosen to conceal his own urges, to proceed slowly. This is the result.

Aramis and Porthos had laughed at Athos for his reticence and his patience, his determination to ease their young protégé slowly into the realities of male love and military life. 

_He’s got to learn the ways of the world sometime,_ Porthos would chortle into his ale in the evenings, after Athos had sent a weary D’Artagnan off to his bed alone and stayed with Aramis and Porthos for another drink. _Why don’t you follow him, give him his education? Boy’s half in love with you already. He’ll roll right over._

_I don’t just want to rut him, Porthos,_ Athos would say in weary reply. _I’m waiting for him to be ready._

Porthos hadn’t understood. He doesn’t know how to value something he’s never had. The son of a slave, left to fend for himself from a young age, he doesn’t remember what it was like to be innocent. 

For his part, Aramis would say nothing. Not while anyone else could hear. Late at night, though, after Porthos had stumbled on ahead, Aramis would linger behind. _You’re not doing the boy any favors,_ Aramis would caution, voice low. _Better he finds out straightaway what the world is really like_.

_I hope he never does_ , Athos would say wistfully. 

_He will. However abrupt you are with him, it’ll be better than life’s lesson. You are playing a dangerous game._

As always, Aramis had been right. Athos had known it even then. Today, he’d seen the accusation of it in Aramis’ eyes even as the guards pulled him away. Athos had refused to listen all those nights, had tried to shield D’Artagnan, and his innocent boy had provoked this tragedy all unknowing. With Aramis, not Athos, paying the price.

Athos would’ve paid it. Had been reaching for D’Artagnan, to pull his boy away from the bars where he stood taunting the guards, to place himself before D’Artagnan. But Aramis had gotten there first. _You’re needed here_ , he’d muttered to Athos through gritted teeth. _Keep D’Artagnan back. He’ll listen to you_. Then Aramis had leaned forward, easy smile appearing on his face, and turned on the charm. 

And Athos had pulled D’Artagnan back, into the shadows, and held him in place while Aramis convinced the guards to turn their attention away from the young Gascon and towards the elegant Musketeer.

_Watch over Porthos_ , Aramis had begged Athos in the brief moment he had to speak freely, while the guard went to fetch the keys to their cell. _Protect him, please_.

_Aramis_ – he’d started. But the guard’s footsteps loomed close, and there was no time to say anything but _yes, I will, I promise_. 

In Athos’ arms, D’Artagnan stirs, shaking out of his stupor. “What are we going to do?” he asks, looking at Athos, expecting an answer. Still so trusting. How can he still have such faith in Athos, when the proof of Athos’ inability to save them rings in their ears? It’s Aramis D’Artagnan should be turning to. It’s Aramis who is protecting them all.

But it’s Athos who is here, so it’s he who must act. And somehow D’Artagnan is still looking to him. Expecting a miracle that Athos hasn’t got to give. 

“There’s nothing we can do,” Athos says as gently as he can. “Not unless they make a mistake. Our best course is to wait. Treville will be – ”

“We can’t wait!” D’Artagnan cries, shocked. “What about Aramis?”

Athos hesitates, but the time for discretion is past, long past. Now is the time for bluntness and truth. “The guards are men, not demons. They can’t keep this up forever. Nor go again too soon. Aramis has bought perhaps twelve hours. Treville’s company are only two hours behind us, and he’ll be pushing. He always assumes the worst when a scouting party doesn’t report back. They’ll have us out of here before the guards are ready for another round.”

“So that’s your plan?” D’Artagnan demands. “We wait for rescue? And what if they’re delayed? What if we’re still here in twelve hours? Will you let them take Aramis again?”

Athos’ heart twists at the way his boy spits his accusations, fear and sudden distrust swirling in his expressive eyes. So quickly D’Artagnan has learned to blame. So quickly has his trust turned to betrayal. 

“If we are still here in twelve hours, I will go,” he says quietly. “Aramis will not be able to do it. They will have injured him.” Athos thinks of explaining further, of elaborating on the nature of Aramis’ probable injuries. If Porthos does not regain consciousness, D’Artagnan will have to help tend him. But in the end Athos’ resolve fails. His boy will learn soon enough of the injuries left behind by force. Athos’ sense of time is excellent, and Aramis has already been at the guards’ mercy for nearly an hour. There are only half-a-dozen of them. They will be done soon.

D’Artagnan does not know what to make of this answer. He looks at Athos doubtingly at first, but soon comes to realize Athos is deadly serious. “I don’t want you to,” he says finally. He ducks his head. “This is my fault. Let me go.”

“No,” Athos says vehemently. D’Artagnan’s head flies back up, his eyes searching out Athos’, startled. 

“No,” Athos says again, gentling his tone, unable to resist the need to reach out and touch his beautiful boy, now that there is no longer any need to hide. D’Artagnan’s cheeks are rough with stubble. Athos caresses them, softly, letting his fingers trail over plump lips parted with surprise. “They touch you beside my cooling corpse.”

“And mine,” another voice says unexpectedly. Athos breaks D’Artagnan’s gaze to see that Porthos is conscious, his head turned sideways to regard them both. A glance is enough to see that Porthos has been awake long enough to have understood. To know what is being done to Aramis and to guess the why of it. Porthos’ eyes are full of pain from a source deeper than a knock on the head, but his voice is firm. “You must do as Athos says.”

“Why?” D’Artagnan demands again, looking between the two of them. “Am I not as much a Musketeer as either of you? And this is my fault, besides!”

“More mine,” Athos admits softly, avoiding Porthos’ gaze. “It was my responsibility to educate you. I shirked my duty, and left us all vulnerable.” Later he will pay for this. Later he will deliver himself to Aramis and Porthos for whatever vengeance they deem necessary. But first he must protect them, as Aramis had charged him.

“You did what you thought was right,” Porthos says. He begins to flex his limbs and push himself to a sitting position. He has to support himself against the wall, still half-supine. “I shouldn’t’ve said otherwise, before. Everyone doesn’t have to be like me.” He laughs, shortly, without humor. “World’d probably be better with more people like our Gascon.”

D’Artagnan flushes. It’s enchanting, a moment of beauty in this cesspit, but Athos is too stunned by Porthos’ statement to appreciate it. The one thing he couldn’t have expected. Absolution, from Porthos, whose lover is still –

The noises have stopped.

Athos and Porthos look towards the cell door at the same moment. It swings open, and a leering guard shoves Aramis inside. Athos tenses, watching for a mistake, but none comes. The door is closed again, locked, and the guard swaggers off, chuckling low.

Porthos tries to struggle to his feet; D’Artagnan uncoils from Athos’ embrace and stops him with a touch. It’s D’Artagnan who helps Aramis limp the few steps separating him from Porthos, supports Aramis while he sinks to the ground and lays his head on Porthos’ chest. He’s lying on his side.

“D’Artagnan, get the waterskin,” Athos orders. It’s one of theirs, Porthos’ actually, but the guards had thrown it into the cell with them. They don’t want their captives dead, just weak. No one has touched it yet. They’ve been too distracted by D’Artagnan’s provocation of the guards and the subsequent events. They’ll need it now to clean Aramis’ wounds.

“It’s not too bad,” Aramis says, attempting a light tone and failing badly. “They took their time.”

“I will kill them for you,” Porthos promises darkly, stroking Aramis’ hair. A distraction, while Athos peels away Aramis’ smallclothes as gently as he knows how. Bloodstained trousers lie crumpled in a corner. Athos’ overshirt is already torn to make rags and bandages. “All of them. Slowly. I swear it.”

“Leave some for me,” Aramis whispers, fingers spasming where they’re clasped around Porthos’ arm, as Athos pours water over the damaged area and begins to wipe it away.

Kneeling next to Athos, watching it all, D’Artagnan makes a strangled noise and buries his face abruptly in Athos’ far shoulder. Athos lays his free arm around D’Artagnan, holding him close, feeling the fabric of his cloak grow damp against his shoulder. His other hand continues its work. Porthos cradles Aramis and watches, still whispering promises in Aramis’ ear. 

When Treville’s men burst into the cell three hours later, Aramis is outwardly intact. Draped in the concealment of Athos’ cloak, he moves no more stiffly than Porthos, dizzy from concussion. It’s D’Artagnan who ends up receiving the most concerned looks from the men of their company. He hasn’t got a scratch on him, but he’s pale as a ghost, and he clings to Athos as if he will never let go.

Treville lets his gaze run over the foursome. He shakes his head, blowing his breath out, before he waves two men over to help Porthos and slings Aramis’ arm around his own shoulder. 

“We took several of them alive,” he says. “When you’ve had a good night’s sleep and a visit to the medics, I’ll write you orders. You’ll take them back to Paris.”

Athos and Porthos exchange looks. “Rough country between here and Paris,” Athos observes carefully. “We may get set upon by brigands. The prisoners may be killed.”

“I’ll take the chance,” Treville says.

“Brigands aren’t always nice people,” Porthos says darkly. “Sometimes their victims die messily.”

“Fortunes of war,” Treville says.

Porthos flicks his gaze over to Aramis. He nods.

“Thank you,” Aramis says weakly.

“Athos,” Treville says. “Am I making those orders out for three of you, or four?”

Next to Athos, D’Artagnan stirs. For possibly the first time, his boy hears what someone means as well as what they say. _Are you still determined to shelter him?_ Treville wants to know. 

D’Artagnan is looking up at Athos, a question of his own burning in his eyes.

Athos looks at his boy. Turns to Treville.

“Four,” he says.

At his side, D’Artagnan straightens.

“Teach him well,” Treville says, leading Aramis from the room. The other Musketeer shows his teeth.

“We will,” he promises.

The night after they reach Paris, only the four of them left alive, D’Artagnan comes to Athos. It isn’t sweet at all.


End file.
